07/25/99

By Frank Luksa / The Dallas Morning News

The Rangers Years The Astros Years The Angels Years The Mets Years

My most compelling memory of Nolan Ryan took place far from the pitching mound where he fashioned a Hall of Fame career. It occurred early on a Sunday morning in a hotel room in Baltimore almost six years ago.

Maybe it was because we were alone and able to talk freely. Ryan's celebrity didn't permit many private moments with anyone, not even media types who trailed the Rangers. This was the only occasion that I shared a substantial amount of two-man time with him.

Ryan had started against the Orioles the night before. He didn't last long. Nolan was throwing warm-up pitches to begin the fourth inning when he stopped and made an agitated motion toward catcher Ivan Rodriguez.

Rodriguez motioned toward the Rangers' dugout. Trainers and manager Kevin Kennedy rushed to the mound. Ryan threw one more pitch and walked off.

A sellout crowd of 46,397 at Camden Yards gave Ryan a third standing ovation. He'd been cheered walking toward center field to warm up before the game. Then again as he left the dugout to open the first inning.

Nolan's departure reeked with emotion since Ryan had announced that 1993 would be his 27th and final major league season. Fans knew they were seeing the last of him as an active pitcher at Camden Yards.

Head down, Ryan responded to the last ovation with a quick wave before disappearing from view. The crowd remained on its feet, imploring him with sustained applause to reappear. He didn't come back.

No one - Ryan included - knew whether he'd thrown the last pitch of his career. He'd already been disabled three weeks by minor knee surgery in April and again for 10 weeks for a pulled hip muscle. The date was Aug. 22. He was down again with only six weeks left on the schedule.

It was as Ryan said during a pre-game news conference when someone made hopeful mention that he'd beaten Cleveland in his previous start on two hits over seven innings, 4-1.

"Even though I've had some good outings," Ryan said, "my body is telling me it's time to quit."

Now his body shouted the message. Ryan had pulled a rib cage muscle. He recognized the injury as slow-healing. Was this where his career ended - with 324 victories, a record 5,706 strikeouts, another record seven no-hitters and 61 shutouts? Almost.

Ryan pitched only 11 innings and struck out eight more batters before his curtain fell. But that's not my story.

I remember Ryan as a prisoner of pain, a hostage to celebrity. An athlete trapped by fame.

Before he left the locker room Saturday night, Nolan agreed to an interview Sunday morning before he flew home to be examined by doctors. This was how we met in a Room 964 of a hotel where he'd registered under a fake name. First thing I ask was how he felt.

"Once I went to sleep [at 2 a.m.], I was OK," replied Nolan. Why so late? Phone calls and knocks on his door, Ryan said. Autograph stalkers had discovered his whereabouts despite the assumed name.

Did he take anything to help induce sleep?

"A couple of Advil," he said, winking at the shameless plug of a product he endorsed.

The telephone rang. Ryan picked up the receiver, then replaced it without a word. A kid calling, he shrugged.

Isolation allowed Ryan much time to think. He was virtually sealed in a cocoon. He couldn't take meals outside the hotel or in hotel restaurants without being mobbed by fans.

Camden Yards sits less than a half mile from the hotel. Ryan couldn't make that short walk for the same reason. Security guards would escort him to a side exit so he could duck into a car and be driven to the stadium.

Ryan's life on the road was shared with mankind's most boring roommates: television and room service.

There was a knock on the door. Must be another kid, Ryan said, and bent toward the keyhole. An exclamation greeted him as he opened the door. There stood a woman in her 40s.

"I know this is an imposition," she said, breathing hard, "but so many people idolize you." Ryan murmured a respectful reply.

"Johnny! Johnny!" the woman shrieked to her son. "Come here and shake his hand!"

Imposed duty done, Ryan returned to packing for a flight to Dallas. His room-service breakfast tray lay in the hall. Another knock. Three security guards walked in. They'd come to help the hostage escape.